


Wearin' O' The Green

by redeem147



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Gen, Humour, St. Patrick's Day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-10
Updated: 2011-08-10
Packaged: 2017-10-22 11:56:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 340
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/237776
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redeem147/pseuds/redeem147





	Wearin' O' The Green

“Top o’ the ev’nin’ to ya,” squeaked a little voice from beside him.

 

Spike looked down at the next barstool. “Oh, god. Not one of you. I thought I’d get through the seventeenth for one year without one of you Irish demons.”

 

“Leprechaun, boyo. Don’t like the term demon.” The little creature explained. “Look at me green suit, green hat, red hair. Leprechaun.”

 

“Demon. Sod off.” Spike turned back to the serious effort of imbibing mass qualities of beer.

 

“Ah, and what brings a foin young specimen of a vampire like yourself to a bar like this? Drinki’ yer unlife away. And you not even Irish.” The leprechaun tapped his nose with his forefinger. “Ah, I know. Girl trouble, I’ll be thinkin’”

 

“Not Irish. Spent enough time with one a you stupid gits to develop an extreme dislike for the whole lot a you. So, at the risk of repeatin’ myself, sod off.” He took a swig from his mug, and tapped the bar to indicate the desire for another. “Besides, she’s none of your bloody business.”

 

“I knew it. I knew a foin young colleen in County Claire. Now she was…”

 

“Shut up.” Spike looked at the diminutive demon. With vampire speed, his hands shot out and he had the little creature by the neck. “Okay. I know the deal. I’ve got you. The lady in question would be very grateful for a pot of gold. So cough up.”

 

“Can’t,” the Irishman squeaked. “Don’t have it. Let go. You got me. Can’t lie. No gold.”

 

Spike released his hold, and the leprechaun gasped for air, rubbing his throat to bring back the circulation. After a moment, he continued. “Lost everything I had in a bad internet investment. Not a nugget left. So,” he looked up at his reluctant bar mate, “Lend me a few punts for me tab?”

 

Spike dropped some bills on the counter. “If it’ll shut you up.” He rose to sit farther down the bar. “I guess that’s what they call the luck of the Irish.”


End file.
